


the things we know

by orphan_account



Series: this is the end [18]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode: s05e04 The End, M/M, Pre-End!verse, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-01
Updated: 2014-08-01
Packaged: 2018-02-11 08:57:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2061954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean and Cas talk about what they are, and Cas' species status.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the things we know

“Goodnight, angel,” you say, pulling his body flush against your side and closing your eyes.

“Not an angel,” he corrects, mumbling against your collar bone.

You smile and kiss the top of his head without opening your eyes. “You’re _my_ angel. Always.”

He huffs and rolls away. You try to keep him against you but you’re too tired, already half asleep. You smell rather than see it when he lights up a clove cigarette, lying down next to you as he takes a puff. “I’m just a man, now.”

You can’t help but laugh as you reach over and take the cigarette from him, placing it between your own lips and breathing in as you open your eyes again. He gives you a half-hearted glare before taking it back.

“Some kind of hippie,” you smirk as he inhales and rolls his eyes.

“Why does everything need a label, Dean?” he asks, gesturing widely with the cigarette between his pointer and middle finger on his left hand. He looks at you pointedly but you don’t know how to answer, so you don’t. Instead, you take the cigarette and give it another pull.

“It just… it helps things make more sense, Cas,” you argue. “Fuck, the world is going to shit; a little clarity would be nice sometimes.” You’re sitting up now, the calm sleepiness you’d had before having disintegrated in the cold morning air.

He sighs and sits back against the headboard, letting his head flop backwards to hit the wall. You notice that his hair is getting long; it nearly falls in his eyes now. He doesn’t notice. “This is about us again, isn’t it?”

You run a hand through your still short hair. “Maybe it should be. Maybe we should _talk_ about this.”

“What is there to talk about?” he counters. “The world is, as you said, ‘going to shit’, so why does it _matter_ , Dean? I’m human, you’re human; we have needs that we can satisfy mutually.”

You cover your face with your hands and speak from underneath them. “Is that what I am to you?” You try to keep the hitch from your voice and fail. “A – a living sex toy?”

He looks at you curiously through a puff of smoke and you want to snatch the cigarette away from him and throw it across the room, stomp it out. Instead you just take it and give another pull, breathing it deep into your lungs. You try to calm your beating heart as he shrugs. “That’s what this is, isn’t it? We have an agreement.”

“This is why _labels_ matter,” you bite out, keeping your words clipped to try and stop the emotions from slipping out. “I thought we both knew this wasn’t just sex, Cas.” You press the heels of your palms into your eyes to try and stop the burning.

“Oh,” he says. He doesn’t move and he doesn’t say anything else so you peek out from under your hands.

“Oh?” you repeat. “That’s all you have to say?”

He shrugs. “What do you want me to say?”

You remove your hands from your face and let out a breath, realizing that you still have the cigarette. You place it in your mouth again and speak around it. “Anything but that.” You laugh but it’s a dry sound; there’s no humour in your voice. There’s not much of anything, really.

“I could have loved you once.” He takes the cigarette right out of your mouth and puts it in his. You think this is the closest you’ll get to being something meaningful full in him; he’s breathing in the air from your lungs. You’d give him all your oxygen if he’d love you for a moment; you’d give him all the blood in your veins if he’d just touch you and mean it.

You feel like screaming or crying but you can’t do either so you just lay your head down. “Good for you.”

He drops the cigarette in the ash tray on the nightstand and lays back down, putting his head on your chest. You don’t move your arm to pull him close, but you don’t push him away, either. “Sorry,” he mumbles against your collar bone.

“Goodnight, angel,” you say again. This time, he doesn’t protest.


End file.
